Do you ever think about getting all your ex-lovers together and putting them in a room so they can have a meet-and-greet?

You know, ask each other questions, compare notes and hesitantly but curiously ask, “Did she eat your ass?” secretly hoping he was the only one.

Don’t worry baby, you were, you were…

I don’t know why I think of things like that.
What’s the purpose?
Validation.

Feeling the bulk of my conquests, my indiscriminate soul manifesting in all colors, shapes and sizes. Love in numbers. Literal, tangible numbers. It’d be quite a night. I’d cook, of course. I’d incorporate ALL of their favourite meals. To ease the discomfort, to remind them why they loved me.

Now tell me, why is this all so necessary?

Why do I need so much validation mixed with desire, the need to BE desired, the need for love however temporary however fleeting?

I can’t seem for the life of me to answer that question.

I’m beginning to think that these words made into sentences and paragraphs resemble the human, or what is perceived as the human experience. Trying to make sense of it all and navigating from one topic to the next, because that’s how we beating blood-filled pieces of flesh work, a million miles a second. I’m no fucking scholar, I never finished college, I taught myself most everything, MOST everything I know.

You pick up the things that enthrall and you run, run with them like your hymen depended on it. Like your very virginity was at stake and you gorge on that thing, whatever it is and you get so full, so disgusted with it, but you keep going, don’t stop, until all you can do is taste it when you smack your lips together and see it when you close your eyes.

I think of books I’ve read, lessons learned, the calloused heart, fleeting emotions of passersby, co-workers becoming friends, friends becoming acquaintances, enemies becoming obsolete, body getting stronger, mind getting wiser, time ticking by, love in the ether, me in the city and you nowhere and everywhere.

Speaking of the city, GOD, I can write endless supposed prose in her honor.

The beautiful City of Angels.

But I’ll spare you the bullshit so that you can visit her yourself.

 

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